Kings of Sorcery

by Robert Ryan

There was a road, and Brand took it. Haldring had told him the Callenor did not like it here, and this matched his own experience growing up. The people hated them, and the Callenor in turn hated the flat land coming themselves from an even steeper and hillier country than the Duthgar. Instead of settling warriors here, Unferth taxed it heavily. It was a mistake, but one that Brand was glad of. It supplied the district with more reason to hate the usurper, and more freedom for its youth to join Brand’s army.

  He saw movement as he marched. Men raced away on horseback, people came out of the houses and watched. Farmhands in fields stopped what they were doing and peered at them. When the road took the army close to people, they clapped and cheered. Rumor flew on falcon wings in the Duthgar. They knew whose army this was, and what it was going to attempt. And they liked it. Not least did they like it when he drew his sword and raised it high. This brought the loudest cheers. Farmers they might be, but they came from a long line of warriors and there were swords and spears and shields in every house, and the youth of the district practiced with them. They were not seasoned fighters, but they were doughty men with passable skill.

  Thus the morning passed. “It’s a different land here,” Taingern observed.

  “It is,” Brand agreed. “But also, my grandmother on my mother’s side came from this district. There’s a bond of blood between them and me. And it sings to them.”

  Taingern gave him a curious look, but Brand did not mind. He was in a curious mood. Almost fey, and he liked it. Danger was behind him as well as ahead. The future was uncertain. But this moment, this feeling he had right now, it was what it was to be alive. Or perhaps that was what Aranloth had called riding the dragon’s breath. At any rate, the deeper he traveled into the Duthgar the more at home he felt.

  Yet, suddenly cool of thought once more, he knew that in truth he could never come home. His feet might tread the same paths of his youth, his eyes see the same sights, but he was different.

  The next few hours passed by, and it seemed like weeks. As the road came into settlements Brand greeted people, shook their hand and showed them his sword. At times, he wore the Helm of the Duthenor, but at others he lifted it free of his head and showed his face. The warriors he led continued to sing, and the countryfolk around often took up the song themselves. And wherever he passed, and to whomever he spoke, it always ended the same way. Brand told them he was here to overthrow the usurper, and he needed stout men, men willing to fight and risk their lives for freedom. If there were such men here, let them come with him.

  And they came. At first in groups of two or three. Then in troops of twenty or thirty. And finally in their hundreds as word spread. They came now from before the army as well as behind it. There were older men, men who remembered Brand’s father and grandfather when they sat in the high chair of the Duthenor. And there were younger men. Men who had no memory of Brand himself, but they knew who he was and what he stood for. And they trusted in him to rid them of Unferth.

  Brand’s mood changed. It was fey no longer, but cool and rational. These people depended on him. If he erred, they would die. That was responsibility enough to topple a mountain, for the weight of other people’s hopes was heavier than the weight of stone.

  But he went on. There was no turning back now. And the chances of the world were as great for fortune as misfortune. And he had skill besides. He had led armies to victory. He had outwitted enemies. He had command of magic. Neither he nor his army would be easy prey.

  They camped that night outside a great village. Here, the army acquired food and supplies. Brand paid for it, for he brought gold with him, some his own and some from Lord Gingrel’s treasury. This endeared him to the district all the more as many armies would simply requisition supplies without payment. And all through the night new recruits arrived.

  The next morning saw them marching again, this time to not only cheers and song but the blowing of horns and the throwing of flowers. It was like a celebration, but Brand better understood the truth. Beyond doubt, some of the men with him would be slain in battle. Perhaps even himself. It was nothing to celebrate, and yet a man, nor a whole people, could go through life fearing death. Because if you did not go out to meet the great dark, it would creep into your house and sweep you into oblivion anyway. Celebration was as good a way to deal with truth as denial and fear. Perhaps even better.

  While in view of the village, Brand rode his horse. The roan strutted proudly, and it was fitting that the people should see the rightful heir to the kingship with pomp and ceremony. But when he had passed beyond sight Brand dismounted and walked just as the soldiers did.

  All the while he could see Haldring grow agitated. Finally she spoke.

  “You might as well have written Unferth a letter and told him where you are. What use disappearing in the swamp only to announce your presence to the whole world soon after?”

  Brand was not upset. This was why he had made her a general – to offer her opinions freely. And there was truth to what she said.

  “I don’t disagree with you. But Unferth has supporters everywhere. We’ve vanished from sight of those behind us. They may suspect we went into the swamp, but even so they’ll not know where we’re headed afterwards. And they’ll not try to follow, I think.”

  She was not mollified. “And what of Unferth’s supporters ahead of us?”

  “A good question. In truth, I don’t know the answer. I suspect Unferth will have already taken steps. And likely he’ll have sent a force against me. But that force will be sent to my last known whereabouts. With luck, they’ll have gone past us on the High Way. If not, then at least I have gathered a much greater force myself. Either way, I’m now in a position to force a battle if circumstances favor me, or to maneuver away if I so choose.”

  The army proceeded. They were coming now to a part of the district that Brand knew very well. He had lived here, and it was a strange feeling to be returning, stranger still that he had an army with him.

  The flat land was giving way. It rose to hills in the east, thickly forested. He had hunted in those hills, and he had learned to fight there too. Many had been his teachers in the ways of the warrior, but one of the finest had been an old man who lived a secluded life as a hunter trading furs once a year. He had little money, and in truth was no great hunter. But he was a sword master of the highest skill and loved to pass on his knowledge.

  There would be no chance to go visit him or see if he were even still alive. The road turned south west, and Brand followed it. But here also was a reminder of his past. These were farms that he knew. It was the fringe of the district, and the land was not as fertile as it had been, but it was still good land and there were good people here. The best. And these at least he might have a chance to see.

  They came after a short while to the very farm that he had lived on. The cultivation at the front was now showing the new green shoots of a cereal crop. The soil was good there, and he remembered ploughing it, the smell of the fresh-broken earth filling his nostrils. He had cut hay there also, drying, turning and stacking it. A creek ran down the side boundary, and there he had caught his first fish. Near the cottage stood an orchard of pear trees. These he had pruned in winter and harvested later in the year. They were juicy and sweet.

  But it was the cottage that drew his gaze. He had lived under that roof, eaten and laughed there, been protected from his enemies. For a while, it had been home. And the two people who had given him this stood there now before it, watching the army.

  Brand signaled a stop. He told Haldring it was time for a break, and to Shorty and Taingern he suggested they have a drink at the farmer’s well and see if they had any news. He had to be careful here, for he was hidden from farm to farm in his youth. The people who sheltered him had risked much, and he could do nothing here to reveal the identity of such a family. There could be spies in his army that would eventually report to Unferth.

  When they were out of earshot, he told his two friends what was going on. They nod
ded, understanding.

  They came to the well and drew water. From the cottage the two people walked out to meet them. They were older now, in their seventies at least. Harad had silver hair, and his beard was silver-white. Hromling was thin as a whip, her hair gray and her back slightly bent. They came over, hand in hand.

  Brand felt a wave of emotion roll over him. These people had been parents to him, at risk of their own lives. Yet he must be careful to give no sign of how he felt for fear they may be targeted by Unferth, and that hurt him.

  There were tears in their eyes as they approached. “It’s good to see you lad,” Harad said.

  “And you also. Both of you,” Brand answered. “I wish I could hug you, but we must be careful. The army thinks I’m just having a drink.”

  “We understand,” Hromling said. “Unferth has eyes everywhere. But welcome home anyway.”

  Harad glanced at Shorty and Taingern, and Brand knew what he was thinking.

  “These are two friends of mine. I trust them with my life. They’ll not say anything.”

  The old man seemed relieved. “You’ve done well, Brand. Most folks are lucky if they find one such friend all their lives.”

  “I’ve been lucky,” Brand agreed. “All my life I’ve been lucky with the friends I’ve known.”

  Hromling wiped tears away from her eyes. Harad reached out and held her hand again, but he kept his gaze on Brand.

  “Can you win?” he asked.

  “I can win. I will win, for you and others like you through the Duthgar.”

  He saw belief in their eyes. They knew he would not have returned unless he could overthrow Unferth, but hearing it made that belief real. And saying it made it real to Brand as well. He must win, and he would. But it would come at a price.

  For a while they talked. The two of them had heard rumors from time to time of his exploits. They were proud of him. They missed him. But talk returned to the battle ahead.

  “When I had to leave here,” Brand said, “I fled in a hurry. I left something behind. By chance, do you still have it?”

  They knew what he meant. “We kept it,” Hromling said. “We kept it hidden all these years.”

  “Fetch it for him,” Harad said. “He’ll need it now. And throw some bread in the bag as well. It will give him a reason to walk away from here with something in his hand.”

  Hromling hurried away. “Thank you for keeping it,” Brand said. “Thank you for everything.”

  “It was our pleasure, lad. Don’t worry about that. You just give Unferth what he deserves, and the world will be a better place.”

  Brand sensed the curiosity of his two friends, but there was no time to explain to them what Hromling carried as she returned. In her hands was a plain hessian sack. It seemed light in her grip, as though there was no more in it than a few loaves of bread. She gave it to him.

  He thanked her, not with the hug that he wished to give, but with a handshake. But he had slipped a gold coin into his palm. He shook Harad’s hand as well, and did the same with him.

  They surreptitiously pocketed the coins. Two gold coins, as much as the farm would earn in a year, but he wished he could do more for them.

  “When this is over, I’ll return,” he said.

  They grinned at him. “We’ll look forward to it. Then we can talk properly,” Harad said.

  “And I’ll cook you roast mutton,” Hromling offered. “It was always your favorite.”

  He left then, steeling himself so that his face showed no emotion as he went back to the army. To them it would seem he had passed the time of day with an old farming couple as he drank at their well.

  The army moved off. Brand led them, his gaze to the front instead of his old home and people he loved. He hated it, but it was for a purpose and there was no sacrifice he would not make for the safety of people who had risked so much for him.

  On they went, and Brand set a hard pace. His army was much bigger now, but secrecy and surprise were two of the greatest factors for military success. He may have lost it, but he did not think so.

  By nightfall, he had veered back toward the High Way and established a camp. After the army had eaten, and he had carried out his customary walks, talking to sentries and soldiers, he returned to his usual place near the center of the camp. Sighern was there, tired and sleepy, sitting down near a dying fire.

  Brand gestured to him to stand up and come over to where the horses were tethered.

  “We haven’t spoken much, lately,” Brand said. “How are things with you?”

  “I’m fine. I’ve been keeping my mouth closed and my ears open. And I’ve been watching how you lead the army.”

  “Really? And what have you learned?”

  “Keep morale high. Keep your enemies guessing. Strike where you can win, and shun fights you might lose. All the while, gather your strength.”

  Brand was not sure what to say. The boy had been watching. He understood warfare, and politics for that matter, better than most men twice his age. He had a talent for it.

  “Good! Keep watching. You just never know when such knowledge will come in handy. But in the meantime, I have a task for you. If you’re willing.”

  “Anything,” Sighern answered.

  “You shouldn’t be so quick to accept,” Brand said with a smile. “It could be dangerous.”

  “Even so,” Sighern said solemnly, “I’ll do it.”

  Brand drew out the hessian sack from his saddlebag that Harad and Hromling had given him. He handed it to the boy.

  “Don’t be fooled by appearances. What’s inside this simple sack could get you killed. Men have followed it and died. Unferth would murder you to destroy it. Do you still wish to carry out my task? If not, I’ll understand. Just give me the bag back, and we’ll speak no more of it.”

  The boy held the bag close to his chest. “I’m game, whatever it is.”

  Brand nodded slowly. Shorty was right – the boy had guts.

  “Then you should know what it is that you carry. It’s the banner of the chieftains of the Duthenor. My father, and his father before him owned it. It has seen war. Men have died beneath its shadow, died for what it represented. Say nothing to anyone, nothing at all. But cut yourself a staff when next we camp.”

  Sighern took it all in slowly. “And then what?”

  “Then, if you wish it, you will be my banner bearer. Do you want to do that?”

  “Yes!”

  “Good!” Brand said. “Wait though to reveal it. Tell no one, show no one, until I give you the word.”

  “It shall be as you say,” Sighern said. “Thank you, for I know this is an honor normally given to some trusted warrior who has proven his worth.”

  Brand clapped him on the shoulder. “And so it is. You’ve proven your worth to me when swords were flashing and death in the air. And in other ways too.”

  The boy stood taller. “Now what? Where does the army march?”

  “We march to war, for I have promises to keep. And though you and I have fought together, the army speeds now to its first proper battle, but if we win, not our last.”

  Sighern seemed to think about that. He had a quick mind.

  “It was safer when our army was smaller, was it not? Now, we’ll have to fight and win just to keep the men fed?”

  “Indeed so. It was safer when it was just you, me, Shorty and Taingern facing the wolves. What comes next will be worse.”

  21. It Comes

  Harlach sat in the reed chair by her hearth. It felt cold, as it never did in the swamp, and she carelessly tossed another chunk of alder into the fire. It hissed and smoked as the flame took it, for there was more moisture in it than there should have been. It had not been properly cured yet.

  She paid no heed to the smoke, ignored that it made her cough. She was always coughing. It was a symptom of living in the swamp. Once, she had lived elsewhere, but that was long ago.

  She shifted uncomfortably in the chair. No use thinking about that now. Keep y
our mind on the present, woman, or the present will kill you.

  Had she said that aloud, or only thought it? She was not sure. She spoke to herself often these days. Another symptom of living in the swamp, mostly by herself. And age, of course.

  With age came a diminishment of power. Once she would have killed the creature that trod her swamp without pause. Now it came to kill her, and fear gnawed at her empty stomach. She had thought herself a match for it, even now, but the closer it came the more of its power she sensed. It might kill her, but then again, why should it? She would give the thing freely of the information she had. Brand was nothing to her, the fate of the Duthgar even less.

  Think, woman. What does it want? The answer came to her quickly. It did not want information, as such. It knew as well as she that Brand had come through, and when. It was following him, and it was gaining on him. It did not need her for that. So, then, it wanted of her power. She had the gift of foresight. It wanted to know who Brand was, what he was capable of, what he would do. It did not take him lightly as an enemy, and it wanted to understand him before it struck. In that way, it would guarantee its success. As if the creature needed more advantage than it already had.

  The swamp was silent, even though night had fallen. It was here, just outside. She sensed it, sensed its anticipation, and she cursed herself for a fool. It was going to kill her.

  She stood, her back paining her as she did so. A knife lay on the table next to her, but that was useless. Her eyes scanned the room. For the first time she noticed what a hovel it was. It was no place for such as she to die.

  Anger ran through her. She straightened. She had better weapons than steel with which to defend herself. Whatever devil this was, she would make it scream if she could.

  At that moment, the door opened. The creature passed through the threshold, and she knew it for what it was. And fear quelled the rush of pride that moments before had enlivened her.

  Tall he was, his every movement one of sublime grace. Black leather clad him, gleaming like polished coal. Armor he wore, chainmail brighter than silver. A helm was on his head, and he removed it, showing eyes that burned like blue fire and white hair, long but tied back with an obsidian ring. His cheekbones were high, his ears pointed and delicate. He was what the Duthenor called an elf, what many others called a Halathrin. But he was of a kind older and deadlier than others in Alithoras. He did not come from Alithoras at all, but from the pit itself.